


the nights that we steal

by gocrazygostupidgoferal



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Assassins & Hitmen, M/M, Organized Crime, Slow Burn, Strippers & Strip Clubs, hitman!technoblade, if any of you show this to the cc its either being orphaned or deleted so head with caution, listen i saw quackity stripping in minecraft and i simply had to use my hands to write something, stripper!quackity, technoblade has schizophrenia AND hes grey ace. double whammy!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:48:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28404270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gocrazygostupidgoferal/pseuds/gocrazygostupidgoferal
Summary: Technoblade, a hitman struggling to get by in an expensive city, makes a deal with his godson to run a business as a front to sell drugs and make extra money. He doesn't expect to get so attached to one of the dancers they hire, nor does he expect the trouble that comes with.
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity/Jschlatt, Alexis | Quackity/Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & Technoblade
Comments: 63
Kudos: 336





	1. a well respected man

Technoblade never got used to his alarm going off at random hours. He always set it the night before work at a different time, depending on the job, but he never got used to it. There was this thing, that no matter what the alarm, how pretty it sounded, you would grow to loathe it. Technoblade’s alarm tone was just birds tweeting along with a stupid, cheerful song, but it always took every fiber of his being, every ounce of his strength, to not launch his phone into the wall when he heard it. It was like a PTSD reaction in response to a fucking alarm, but Technoblade couldn’t help himself. He liked his rest, unfortunately, he liked his sleep when he could get it. He was a busy person, most days, with his work. This morning was no different. When the birds and the tune started, Technoblade snapped awake and glanced through the morning sun drifting in through his blinds, then sighed and tried his best to turn off the alarm with clumsy fingers. He was practically hitting his phone, but finally it shut off and Technoblade laid back, sighing softly and staring up at the ceiling.

He had a job today, he had to get out of bed.

It took a little bit of motivation, but he forced himself up, grabbing his phone and unplugging it from the charger as he snatched his headphones from where they were resting and sticking them in his ears, pink hair messy and trailing down his back as he shook himself awake, turning on the music after a moment.

_'Cause he gets up in the morning,  
And he goes to work at nine,  
And he comes back home at five-thirty,  
Gets the same train every time.  
'Cause his world is built 'round punctuality,  
It never fails..._

He shoved himself out of bed and went to go brush his hair, a task that was always impossible due to how much he tossed and turned when sleeping. Then it was onto brushing his perfectly-imperfect teeth, hands going to pull his hair into a ponytail as the toothbrush stayed in his mouth. Technoblade had tired eyes, that’s what Phil had always said, ever since they met each other years ago. Technoblade, just eighteen at the time, had said he’d always had tired eyes. The music drummed in his ears as he went back to brushing his teeth, scrubbing the plaque of cheap Chinese food off of the bone.

_And he's oh, so good,  
And he's oh, so fine,  
And he's oh, so healthy,  
In his body and his mind…_

It was onto breakfast, and the song had already looped by then. He cooked eggs with a skill he’d had since he was a kid and learned how to make breakfast burritos at thirteen since his parents had always been busy with their own lives. The potatoes were added in, and peppers, and smells filled the kitchen. Technoblade’s stomach growled in response, but he ignored it, poking at the eggs and potatoes with a wooden spoon, humming along to the song as he watched the vegetables brown as the eggs turned from liquid to a fluffy mixture. 

_He's a well respected man about town,  
Doing the best things so conservatively...._

He idly scrolled through his messages about the job. Something about being clean, not leaving a trace as he did what he needed to. Everything would need to be sanitized, all his tools, and he glanced to his briefcase that laid by the door as he took a bite of the burrito in his hands, before shooting a message out that he understood the rules of the job, that he’d been in this business long enough that it really wasn’t a big deal. If they wanted someone professional, they should go to him, not that fucking Dream kid. Apparently his coworker, rival of sorts, had gotten messy. Technoblade thought about it as he took another bite of his breakfast, the music still playing.

_And his mother goes to meetings,  
While his father pulls the maid,  
And she stirs the tea with councilors,  
While discussing foreign trade,  
And she passes looks, as well as bills,  
At every suave young man…_

He set about getting dressed, buttoning up his white shirt with ease, then grabbing his jacket and pulling it on before setting on braiding his long hair. He did it every morning, and by this point twisting the strands around each other was second nature. Another twist tie around his hair, and he sighed, looking into the mirror that hung on his wall and studying himself, his almost pink skin and tired eyes. He looked more tired lately, but then again, he worked nights as well as days. It all depended on the job.

_'Cause he's oh, so good,  
And he's oh, so fine,  
And he's oh, so healthy,  
In his body and his mind.  
He's a well respected man about town,  
Doing the best things so conservatively…_

He had already prepared his tools, and grabbed the briefcase as he went out the door, sighing softly as he got to his car and got in, starting up the engine and listening to it rumble. Despite having money, his car was kind of a piece of shit, it was on his list to get a new one. The phone was plugged into the aux cord, and Technoblade drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as his briefcase sat in the passenger seat. The building he had to go to for the job was practically in the middle of nowhere, left abandoned, but giving him the perfect view he needed for what was to be done. Technoblade set off, driving along as the music continued to play.

_And he likes his own backyard,  
And he likes his fags the best,  
'Cause he's better than the rest,  
And his own sweat smells the best,  
And he hopes to grab his father's loot,  
When Pater passes on…_

The drive was rather long since it was so far out from the main city, but Technoblade didn’t mind driving too much. It was more peaceful than anything, as the city turned to fields and country homes. He was being paid a good amount for this job, despite the client being piss poor and obviously having a vendetta against whoever Technoblade was taking care of. He adjusted his rear view mirror a bit as he drove, making sure no one was following behind his beat up car. He didn’t need anyone watching for this, it was just work. Nothing personal against anyone, he just had a business to run and a reputation to uphold.

_'Cause he's oh, so good,  
And he's oh, so fine,  
And he's oh, so healthy,  
In his body and his mind…_

Pulling up to the abandoned factory, he parked to the side of it so no one would see his car, then worked at getting to the second floor. The factory was located right next to the house that held the person he was instructed to take care of, and he gripped his briefcase, a bit tighter as he set up going up the dilapidated stairs, the music ringing in his headphones as he whistled idly. His fingers twitched on the handle of his case, and he got to the window.

_And he plays at stocks and shares,  
And he goes to the regatta,  
And he adores the girl next door,  
'Cause he's dying to get at her,  
But his mother knows the best about  
The matrimonial stakes…_

Technoblade opened the case, getting his tools out. The Remington was his favorite, his precious baby, and he took the pieces out one by one. The cool black material under his fingers just felt right, and he hummed softly as he got everything together, clipping the scope onto the rifle and studying it for a moment as the music continued in his ears. 

_'Cause he's oh, so good,  
And he's oh, so fine,  
And he's oh, so healthy,  
In his body and his mind…_

He raised the gun, aiming it out the broken window and spotting the target. He was sitting on the porch of his house, obviously having moved to the middle of nowhere to avoid conflict and get away from his troubles. Technoblade stared down the scope, taking the safety off his weapon and letting his finger hang over the trigger idly. The man went to light a cigarette, and Technoblade frowned, waiting for him to lower his hand so he’d have a clean shot, one that wouldn’t leave the man alive. He slowed his breathing down, just waiting, and finally the time came. 

The shot was clean, and the man fell to the wood flooring of his porch. Technoblade heard a scream, maybe the man’s wife or girlfriend, and he took the gun quickly, hiding himself against the wall as the screaming continued. She wasn’t his target, so he didn’t care. What would she say to the police, anyways? That his head had just blown off in front of her? Technoblade hummed as he started to take apart the gun again, his job done. That was over a thousand dollars made in just an hour. Technoblade smiled as the song ended for the final time.

_He's a well respected man about town,  
Doing the best things so conservatively…_

\---

After the morning job was said and done, Technoblade drove back towards the city. The briefcase was stored under the seat, and the music had changed from the happy tune it’d had to a simple mix of random songs he liked. He tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear as he headed out to Phil’s house. Phil Watson was a man of morals and honesty, and Techoblade understood him only a few days out of the week. He had two sons, a twenty one year old, Wilbur, and a fourteen year old, Tommy. The two of them were technically Techno’s godsons, but he was really just an estranged uncle to them. They had relocated years ago, but his sons had picked up his accent somehow, speaking in a different way from Technoblade. Tommy would often mock him for his monotone voice and deadpan way of speaking. Wilbur was impossibly close to his godfather, despite their only slight age-gap. He’d been adopted when he was thirteen out of some kind of broken home, and Technoblade had been only nineteen at the time when Phil offered up for him to be a godfather to his new child. Wilbur latched onto that idea, excited to have someone cool looking over him.

Tommy was a bit different, not doing nearly as well in school as Wilbur, but still having a passion for things. He liked to pick fights with people then deny accountability, much to his father’s dismay, and he couldn’t focus in school. Phil had mentioned medication long ago, and Wilbur, seventeen at the time, said that ADHD medication was how kids turned to crack. Technoblade had snorted into his cup of coffee as the whole conversation played out in front of him, and just idly watched as Phil grew more and more exasperated as Wilbur said how Ritalin and Adderall were just meth for kids. He wasn’t wrong, but Technoblade didn’t mention that.

Phil was a police chief of sorts, having got into the business to put some order into his fucked up affairs. Maybe it was a guilt thing, that he felt he needed to protect people where he couldn’t in the past. Technoblade wasn’t sure, but he had met Phil because of his job. He’d been newly turned eighteen and had resorted to stealing from a store to get what he needed. Phil had cornered him as soon as he got out of the little corner store, and he’d reluctantly given back all the items he stole, wishing at the time he had just run. Phil was extremely soft on him, saying that he was just a kid, which Technoblade took offense to, cold eyes gazing at the then deputy officer while he drove. He had decided to give Technoblade a ride home to his house, and offered up his number, which Technoblade took hesitantly. His apartment was kind of shit, and when everything started going downhill with the rundown home, he’d texted Phil, not knowing anyone else who would put up with an eighteen year old who had graduated early and gotten legal emancipation from his parents. Phil had taken him in, and the rest was kind of history. Now he was a godfather, twenty seven, and took out people with guns for a living. Funny how things worked out like that.

Pulling up into the driveway of the suburban home, Technoblade stared at the house for a moment. It was so vastly different from his own apartment, and he studied the happy little home, knowing how pictures were everywhere inside. Drawings from Wilbur and Tommy as kids, family photos, even framed pictures of Technoblade. Phil really took the dad role seriously, and Technoblade unbuckled his seatbelt as he thought about how Phil was kind of his pseudo dad, in a way. He went in the front door without knocking, and was immediately met by shouting.

“I didn’t take your stupid piano book, stop accusing me!” Tommy shouted into Wilbur’s face. He had always been the louder one of the two, constantly screaming when in arguments rather than Wilbur who took a more calculated approach.

“Well if you didn’t, then who did? I put it in the same spot _every day_.” Wilbur’s voice was low and filled with anger, and Technoblade glanced at Phil, who stood in the doorway with the music book in his hands. He blinked, then went back to watching Tommy and Wilbur argue. Despite being an adult, Wilbur treated Tommy like the little kid brother he was always frustrated but fond of. They were thick as thieves, had been their whole lives, and Tommy looked up to Wilbur. Tommy went to speak again, and Technoblade cleared his throat, catching both of his godsons’ attention.

“Your dad has the book, Wilbur,” he said in his flat voice. Wilbur turned, and Phil held the book up. The eldest son snatched it out of his hands and went to look through the contents to make sure it was completely unharmed. Satisfied, he looked to Tommy.

“Guess you didn’t do it, sorry.” The apology was incredibly half-assed in true Wilbur fashion.

“Yeah! I guess I didn’t!” Tommy snapped, crossing his arms. He let his shoulders fall after a moment, and he headed over to Technoblade without thinking about it. He gave a little wave in greeting and grinned up at his godfather, as if all his anger had melted away. Tommy was fourteen, he had the mood swings of a bipolar alcoholic. Technoblade raised a brow, and Tommy frowned a bit. “What? What’s up--” Technoblade brushed past him, raising his hand on the way and ruffling his hair as he walked by in an affection gesture. Tommy laughed loudly, shoving his hand away, and Phil smiled at Technoblade. His somewhat son and really his closest friend. Techno watched Wilbur thumb through his music book, and the man glanced up at him as he focused on the title.

“Getting into piano now?” Technoblade questioned. “Adding another instrument to the list?”

“I took lessons as a kid, now I’m trying to get it down perfectly. I’ve been practicing, I can play a good number of songs…” Wilbur looked down at the book, then up at Technoblade. “I have a favor to ask you, when you have the time. Just you and I, though.”

Technoblade gave a questioning look, and Wilbur raised his brows in response. Phil didn’t seem to notice their conversation, having headed out to the kitchen to try and enjoy the rest of his coffee. It was Saturday, which meant his boys were home and he didn’t get his usual peace and quiet. It also, however, meant that he had to go into work in about an hour and start mindlessly looking through paperwork for whatever was going on in their city. Wilbur would probably talk to him then, after his dad left. He just prayed he wasn’t going to be asked for relationship advice or some crap like that. It wasn’t his forte. 

Technoblade didn’t eat the breakfast Phil laid out, but sat at the table anyways, having taken a cup of coffee. Tommy was going on and on about his friend from school, Tubbo, and Technoblade half-listened as he thought about what Wilbur could possibly want. The kid was smart for still being a young man compared to Techno’s own age. He was catching onto things, too, asking about Technoblade’s work when he drove Wilbur around to places. It was frustrating to keep everyone in the dark, but Technoblade prided himself on his disconnect from his home life to his work. Phil didn’t know, Tommy didn’t know, and Wilbur didn’t _need_ to know. They really didn’t need to be dragged into this sort of thing. First of all, Phil would kill him if he found out he was a hired hand, and second of all, Technoblade didn’t think that the topic of murdering people for money was a proper conversation to ever have in any setting. He liked his privacy, and that inkling in his stomach that it’d be ruined bothered him.

“And Tubbo is super good at, like, being nice. He’s so much nicer than any person I’ve ever met, and patient, too! A really good listener,” Tommy said, the volume of his excited voice snapping Technoblade out of his thoughts as he glanced at the teenager, then back down at his coffee. He excused himself after a moment and headed out to the front porch, cup of coffee in his hand as he fished out a pack of Marlboros and a lighter, lighting one with ease. The front door creaked behind him, then Wilbur was beside him.

“Can I have one?” Wilbur asked.

“Smoking will stunt your growth,” Technoblade replied as he exhaled the smoke from his lungs, staring ahead at his shitty, beat up car in the driveway. Wilbur frowned.

“I’m done growing, I’m twenty one,” he said as he looked at the car with Technoblade. She was an ugly Dodge Neon that Technoblade had bought when he was sixteen and hadn’t replaced yet. It had only been 2,000 dollars, and somehow it still ran, but Technoblade also accounted for the fact that he took care of it. “I’ve smoked before.”

“It’s a bad habit, don’t start,” Technoblade said, eyes darting over to Wilbur, then back ahead. He took another drag. “What did you want to talk about?” Wilbur seemed to falter, as if he was hesitant about the topic, then looked at Technoblade while he continued to stare at the car. He finally spoke in a quiet whisper, though strength was in the words.

“I want to join the family business.”

Technoblade snapped his head over and stared at him. “The family business.” It wasn’t a question, one asking for an explanation. Despite the lack of elaboration, they both knew what Wilbur was talking about.

“What you do. I want to be like you,” Wilbur clarified. Technoblade gave a heavy sigh, setting his mug down on the railing of the porch. He used his now free hand to rub at his jaw and shook his head.

“That’s not happening.” His voice was firm. “You don’t even like accidentally hurting people, let alone going out of your way to do it.” They were really talking about this on the porch, where anyone could hear. Where Phil could walk out and question what they were discussing. How stupid _was_ Wilbur? Still, Technoblade indulged him. “Why don’t you go sell Adderall or something like a normal young adult in college?”

“No, just listen to me--” Wilbur frowned, then continued when Technoblade didn’t interrupt him, letting him speak. “We could run a front. We pick a business and sell things under the counter, then split the profit.”

“I was joking about selling Adderall, you know.” Technoblade brought the cigarette up to his lips again, letting it hover as he spoke. “You need to focus on something good, not some stupid grand scheme that’ll get your dad fired and you thrown in prison.”

Wilbur shook his head. “I know people, I’ve done things. Seriously, I’ve been thinking about this. It’s feasible, all we have to do is make it really happen. I don’t want to hurt people, no, but you know dad’s kind of been struggling. I want to help.”

“Go get a job at a coffee shop, then.” Technoblade shook his head again. “The answer is no.”

Wilbur used his best puppy dog eyes, ones that had worked on Technoblade when he was younger. “Just consider it? I can text you all the details.”

“You’re an idiot,” Technoblade sighed, going to grab his mug and sip his coffee to try and straighten his thoughts, “this isn’t some fun game to play, Wilbur. This is a serious subject, and you can’t just get into this scene without complications happening. On top of that, your dad has a job he needs to keep. I don’t want to read a headline saying that the police chief who I have direct ties to got fired because I helped out his son with a crackpot plan of selling drugs at a pawn shop, or something. So much planning goes into these things.”

“And I’ve _planned_. I’ve planned, and I’ve thought about it, I’ve asked around for help. A lot of planning goes into this, yes, which is why I’m asking an expert instead of my stupid friends. Just think about it, yeah? Think about it.” Wilbur’s voice was practically pleading, begging, and Technoblade glanced down to his cigarette that was nearly out by this point. He really needed to switch from shorts to 100s. He looked back up at Wilbur and took a drag, blowing smoke away from Wilbur’s face.

“Go back inside and go play piano like you should be doing instead of talking to me about something that’s legitimately illegal. I’ll talk to you later.” He looked back to his car as Wilbur went back inside, looking tense as he closed the door. Had he really expected Technoblade to jump at the idea of him joining the “family business?” It wasn’t even a family business, it was a Technoblade business. He sighed again and studied his car. The paint was chipping, the tires kind of sucked, and there were scratches all over it. One of the mirrors needed to be replaced, and the headlights sometimes flickered. The engine was really the only thing that stayed working, and even then, it acted up sometimes. He really needed to get a new car, as attached to his shitty current one as he was. Money would be helpful, but if he really needed to, he could take on extra jobs, despite the mental strain that came with it. Technoblade didn’t feel bad for the people that died at his hands, it was just a job, but things whispered to him at night. Voices danced in his head, craving more after every job. He had dreams about things happening.

Technoblade stared at his shitty car and thought about how a business front really would attract the money, if they had the right team. If they could just sit there and peddle drugs, something like that, he would have the money to get out of his shitty apartment with heat that worked half the time, one that was set in a terrible neighborhood. He would be able to get a new car that was reliable, that wouldn’t break down at the slightest issue. He would be able to have a life and ease back on being hired to blow brains out. It was a thought, and he hated himself for even considering the notion. Phil would kill him.

He tried not to think about it as he stubbed his cigarette, tossed it in an ashtray (courtesy of Phil Watson) and took his mug, heading back inside the lovely little home in the lovely little suburb, where people didn’t kill others and no one was hanging out in alleyways waiting to rob you. It could be him. He could have this life, too.

He tried not to think about it.

\---

The text came in that night when Technoblade was trying to unwind. He’d gotten a few texts about potential jobs, but he chose to ignore them in favor of fucking around on Twitter. He made sure he didn’t leave a footprint on the internet, something that could be tracked. He had a fake name on his Twitter, he didn’t keep a Facebook, and he had never uploaded a picture of himself to the great world wide web, instead choosing to remain anonymous and sit back in silence. He couldn’t risk it. His coworkers (if you could call them that) were less careful than he was, but they also didn’t have the same experience. That Dream kid, and his little friend George, they were loud and outrageous. If they ruined this for Technoblade, he’d never forgive them, they knew that. They were messier than he was, but Dream was calculated in his own way. He worked with handheld weapons rather than guns more often than not, and for a twenty five year old with a stupid laugh, he was smart. Technoblade had taught him how to properly take apart a rifle and put it back together in under a minute, and he’d picked it up quickly. He was smart, despite being immature and impulsive. With enough training, he could be something great.

 **Hey, Techno. It’s Wilbur, I was thinking about the whole plan. You’re thinking about it, too, right?** Technoblade rolled his eyes as he tried to continue reading. **Most people go for laundromats and that kind of thing, but I reckon that what would really bring in people is a bar or something like that. Places like that, the people in there, they’re always craving something more than a buzz. They want a real high, not just liquor. Just think it over and get back to me.** He really wasn’t letting up on this, huh? Just ignoring the fact that someone had told him no and continuing on with his grand plan in typical Wilbur fashion. Technoblade exited out of his messages and went back to Twitter, when another message popped up.

 **Reply, dickhead, I saw you read it.**

Technoblade snorted and typed a message back, hitting send quickly.

**I thought I had time to think it over.**

**Well, you do, but the person I’m going through won’t have a supply forever. Plus there’s the issue of investing while things are still available. We need a good place that’ll draw people in.** Technoblade had to give him points, he wasn’t stupid.

 **You’ll have to do it on my side of town if you want to actually have it done. You’re not going to find customers in a suburbia setting, or at least not ones that are willing to show their faces. They’re too busy with their potlucks and kids with names that are spelled with five extra vowels than necessary.** He smiled at his own joke, then watched the three dots pop up, indicating Wilbur was typing. Was he really considering this? Was he really indulging Wilbur as he always had? There had to be a limit to how far he was willing to go for his eldest godson.

**There was a strip club that recently closed down a few blocks from you. We could repurpose it.**

Technoblade’s reply was immediate. **No.**

 **We don’t have to make it into that. It can just be a bar that has some weird stages or something.** Technoblade groaned audibly as Wilbur went on. **We just need a bar, and then we need the product, and bam! A business. Money coming in. You can move out of your shit apartment, get away from your shit car, and get into the big business of running a drug front with me and we live happily ever after. No more shooting guns, no more awful apartments, just happiness. :)**

**You’re literally as naive as your dad.**

The dots appeared again, then faded, then appeared.

 **Dad isn’t naive. I could tell him what you do for a living, don’t be rude.** Technoblade sat up straighter at that.

**Wow. Threatening me to get what you want. Good way to get someone on your side.**

The reply popped up a minute later.

**Just consider it, okay? Think about how awesome this could be.**

**’Awesome’ isn’t the word I’d use to describe this. Goodnight, Wilbur.** Technoblade set his phone to silent and scrubbed at his face, rubbing calloused fingers over his eyes as he sighed heavily. What the fuck was he getting himself into? He was a slave to the free-market fuckup that this country had set up, and he really needed money. He needed money, and he needed some pill that would shut up his brain that never ceased to whisper to him. He needed something more than stupid jobs that made those voices worse, that made him ache to go ballistic and take out his rage on everyone. He wanted so badly to listen to them sometimes, to act out every order they commanded. They craved blood, and he could only give so much without losing himself. Wilbur had a point, they would make absolute bank by just selling even pills. Despite not doing much besides being a fiend for Marlboros and sometimes having a drink or two, Technoblade had connections to everything they needed. Apparently Wilbur did, too.

He couldn’t be seriously considering this. Phil would kill him if he went through with him. He would lose everything he had built for himself, or rather what Phil had built for him. He would lose his godsons; and they wouldn’t even understand why, given how they idolized him, worshipped the ground he walked on. On the other hand, though, if they kept quiet about this and Phil continued to be oblivious, Technoblade could actually live. He could afford expensive antipsychotics and therapy for years of shitty childhood memories. It was so tempting to say fuck it, and just agree to Wilbur. 

Instead of responding, though, he put in his headphones and turned on music, trying to drown out the whispers he heard, trying to think of something happier than drug deals and potentially losing his found family.

The music started up, guitar ripping into his ears as the voices screeched to listen, begging him to obey their command. 

_My daddy's got a gun--  
My daddy's got a gun--  
My daddy's got a gun--  
You better run.  
My daddy's got a gun--  
My daddy's got a gun--  
My daddy's got a gun--  
Ga-ga-ga-ga-ga!_

Technoblade sighed as he started to get up and head to bed to mess around on his laptop instead of his phone. The music continued to play, and he glanced to his phone as the screen remained dark, no new messages from Wilbur to display. He wasn’t seriously thinking about this, was he? He couldn’t be. 

Phil couldn’t help him with paying for mental health services as well as everything else, and in a shitty, fucked up country, it was impossible to really get insurance without handing over your soul. The bar, or strip club, rather, would be an easy way to get himself out of the shithole, to make him into a person instead of someone who would talk to himself at the worst of times and blast music until his ears rang. It was a solution. A bad one, sure, but a solution. The song continued to play, and the voices tried to talk over it, begging to be heard. Technoblade turned up the music louder until it was all he could hear, and pulled up Google. He couldn’t be actually doing this. He couldn’t be.

Yet there it was, the listing for the abandoned strip club. It looked a bit run down, but if they invested, it didn’t matter. Technoblade knew Wilbur had savings that he was using for school, and he knew that in his own savings he had enough to cover what he needed. His savings account was for emergencies only, sure, but this seemed somewhat important. If they really needed to, they could figure out a way to take out a loan, or something.

He couldn’t be seriously considering this.

Technoblade pulled up the pictures of the club, clicking through them. The walls were a dark blue, and the lights weren’t too bad. The wood of the floor looked like crap in some places, but they could easily just throw some tables over them and call it good. 

Was he really thinking about it?

Technoblade clicked on another picture, then another. He sighed and looked at his phone, then the pictures, then his phone again.

“God damn it,” he groaned as he picked up his phone and shot a message to Wilbur.

**We can go look at the club in two days. If you’re busy, it’s not happening. This is your one shot, don’t blow it.**

He didn’t even want to look at Wilbur’s response, instead just continuing to click through the photos on the listing and wonder what the fuck he was doing with his life.

\---

Technoblade had his coat on as he walked with Wilbur down the sidewalk, towards the club and away from his car. It was cold out, and the ice on the ground had rock salt thrown over it in a half-assed attempt to keep people from slipping. Technoblade had finally taken out the scarf and gloves he owned, not wanting to admit that winter was upon them and it was freezing out. December was on its way, and they were buying a strip club for Christmas. Awesome. Despite the cold, Wilbur seemed pleased as fucking punch to have his cake and eat it too, and Technoblade rolled his eyes as he started another sentence, talking about how excited he was. As they neared the club, he turned to his godson.

“Chill out or they won’t sell this to us. Okay? Just relax, try and think about something other than money.” Ah yes, money, the bane of Technoblade’s existence. He sighed as Wilbur deflated a bit, and looked ahead, starting up his pace as Wilbur trailed behind. The realtor met them outside and showed them in, and Technoblade couldn’t help but scrunch his nose up a bit at the strong scent of shitty cologne. This was going to be a mess.

“As you can see, it has some charm to it,” the realtor said as Technoblade looked around, hands in his coat pockets. It wasn’t that bad. The paint needed to be redone in some spots, and the floor wasn’t as terrible as what he’d seen. Maybe the pictures had just sucked. “Everything has been cleaned and sanitized, free of any germs…” Yeah, it was a strip club, you should probably fucking clean it. Technoblade walked towards the stage, glancing at the poles that still stood there. It would be a pain to renovate this, to remove and gut it. They’d have to just keep it.

Wilbur looked to the realtor. “So it’s 450,000 altogether?” he asked casually, as if he knew what he was talking about. Technoblade rolled his eyes, hoping the white boy he had for a godson would know to haggle. The realtor nodded and confirmed the price, and Wilbur looked around again.

“These floors are terrible,” Technoblade chimed in when Wilbur obviously didn’t know what the fuck he was doing, “you’re asking for 450,0000 for shit floors, some poles that could easily break from the ceiling, and walls that need to be redone?” The realtor faltered, and went to speak.

“Well, it’s something you would need to invest in. This location is prime for business--”

“This location is also home to neighborhood crackheads and muggings-- I live three blocks from here, don’t lie to me.” Technoblade almost felt bad for the realtor who obviously thought they were just stupid people who wanted to buy a strip club at random. To be fair, that’s what they were, but Technoblade had haggled in his lifetime. “So, drop 50,000 of the asking price, and I’m fine with taking this dump off your hands.” Wilbur was staring at Technoblade with something akin to awe, and Technoblade prayed this would be over soon.

The realtor worried his lip with his teeth. “Well, sir--”

“50,000, or you can find some other idiot who’ll pay your asking price. Take it or leave it.” Technoblade’s words were firm, and he felt a victory when the realtor nodded. 

“I can go get the paperwork, just stay put.” 

Technoblade watched as the realtor exited the club, and Wilbur ran up to him, giddy with excitement. “That was so cool! How did you know that would work?”

“Because I’ve been alive twenty seven years and I’m smarter than you. I can call a bluff,” Techno deadpanned as he looked back up at the poles. “We’re not going to be able to renovate this, we won’t have the money for it.”

“Well-- I mean…” Wilbur looked up at the pole Technoblade was staring at. “We could use it for its intended purposes?”

Technoblade stared at him. “This was supposed to be a bar, not a strip club.”

“Well, think about it-- customers of places like these are eager to get high and see dancers. It’d work even better,” WIlbur defended.

Technoblade wanted to scream-- of _course_ there was a catch. Of course. “A liquor license is around 3,000 a year, the place is 400,000, and the dancers will have to be paid too. Not to mention the actual act of buying drugs to run this place as a front. This won’t work, Wilbur.”

“We’ll earn it all back! I know people who’ll easily sign up to do this if they get a cut. If we’re smart enough, I know we can come out on top.” Wilbur was using those pleading eyes again, and Technoblade’s face hardened. He didn’t have time to reply that Wilbur was being stupid, because the realtor showed back up with a file of paperwork. Technoblade reluctantly tore his gaze away from Wilbur and sighed. The realtor was looking at him like he was some monster that could kill at any moment’s notice. Good. He could.

“Let’s just get this over with,” Technoblade sighed as he got out what he needed to pay. It was all cash, but it would work. Sure, it made everything seem seedy as all hell, but it was what they had to work with. 

Once again, all he could think of was how stupid he was for agreeing to this.

\---

There was the matter of hiring people, and Wilbur assured Technoblade he had it covered, that he had friends. Technoblade didn’t ask questions, instead focusing on finishing up the paint job and getting everything he needed. He’d asked around his connections for a plug, and they’d gotten back to him. Everything was falling into order. To cover the costs of things, he’d taken a few more jobs and gotten a good sum of money to get it all together. The cost of living in the city was ridiculous and ate up his funds constantly, but he made do. Technoblade longed to move out to the snowy mountains and forget about this whole life, everything in it, but he couldn’t focus on that anymore. They had just bought a literal club with everything they needed to set it up. Now it was a matter of fate and luck, no backing out.

Technoblade had dark brown pants on and a white tank top as he spent the day ripping out floors just to put new ones in, doing it all alone and just staying thankful that he had the body for this. He worked out frequently, a coping mechanism, and it helped in this situation. The walls were painted within a day, since Technoblade could just color match and paint the bad spots, and the floors were nearly done when Wilbur arrived with another person. The man he had with him was short, impossibly short, and he had a beanie on, a blue sweatshirt. Wilbur strolled in with him, talking excitedly as Technoblade hammered in another floor, music blaring from his headphones, not noticing them.

_There's a million, billion, trillion stars,  
But I'm down here low,  
Fussin' over scars-- on my soul  
On my soul!  
On my soul--  
On my soul!  
On my soul, I am so!  
Infinitesimal, oh…_

He only glanced up when Wilbur shouted at him, and tugging an earbud out, sweat on his body, his long hair pulled up into a bun. “Finally,” Wilbur sighed, “I’ve been shouting your name for about a minute.”

“Could’ve just tapped me on the shoulder,” Techoblade replied as he stood up and brushed the knees of his pants off.

“And risk having you smash that hammer into my skull? No thanks.” Wilbur looked around the club and smiled broadly. “You’re doing a really good job at this, Technoblade, thank you.”

“Who’s this?” Technoblade asked, choosing to ignore the compliment in favor of focusing on the small man next to Wilbur. He was staring at Technoblade with some look in his eyes, and Technoblade felt his face heat up under that gaze. It was probably just from the labor, not from anything else. At the question, though, the man stepped forward, offering a hand.

“Quackity,” he said with a charming grin, “I’m one of your new dancers. Pleasure to be working for you.”

Technoblade stared at his hand. “Wilbur’s your boss, I’m just here.”

Quackity faltered, glanced down at his outstretched hand, then sheepishly shoved his hand back in the pocket of his hoodie next to the other one. “Right, right…” He looked around the place, then up at the stage, and focused on the pole. “This thing kind of looks chipped, you should spray over it.”

Technoblade raised a brow. “Will it really bother you to have to dance on a less-than-satisfactory pole? I don’t really think you have a say here.” He could see the heat rise up on Quackity’s face, up from his neck to his cheeks. He liked making people flustered like that, just from strong words and a smart tone. 

“Well, no, but… people will notice? Customers will.” Quackity’s attempt was weak.

“People who come to strip clubs don’t exactly come to look at the quality of the poles the dancers are on, I’m really sorry to inform you.” Technoblade glanced over at Wilbur’s amused expression, then back at Quackity’s embarrassed one. “I’m still working on fixing everything anyways. I have to make sure no one will fall through this horrible floor while trying to get a lapdance.” Quackity let out a loud laugh without meaning to, and quickly shut his mouth. God, this kid was a tryhard. “How old are you?”

“Twenty one,” Quackity replied, then paused. “Well, almost twenty one. I turn twenty one on the 28th.”

Technoblade looked at Wilbur. “Our first dancer is someone who can’t even legally work here?”

“Well, the club isn’t even opening until late December. It’ll be fine.” He waved Technoblade off and threw an arm around Quackity, who flinched under the sudden movement. “Besides! Quackity’s good at what he does.”

Technoblade sighed heavily and looked to Quackity’s wide eyes staring at him. They needed someone confident, not a twink with a good ass. The body didn’t make the show, the presence did. “How good are you?” he questioned.

“Better than most, _jefe_ ,” Quackity replied. Technoblade blinked at the sudden introduction of a new language, but shrugged it off. He took a rag from his pocket, wiping off the sweat that he had created from ripping out floors and nodded a bit. Quackity was watching him intently, like he was the hottest thing he’d ever seen. Technoblade had never been one for eyefucking guys or girls in public. He didn’t really experience that hot, heavy feeling of sexual attraction until he was really close to someone, and he almost never got close to people. There was no point. He could think of a few awkward moments where he got crushes on people as a teenager, only for the crush to fade when they realized he was vastly unstable and honestly kind of crazy. Quackity would learn the same thing, it didn’t really matter. He did want to test him a bit, though, and jerked his head to the pole.

“Think you can show me?” the pink-haired man asked. Quackity looked up at the pole, then back at Techno, then up at the pole again.

“I mean--” he began.

“Since you’re so good, you know,” Technoblade added to try and really rub it in. Quackity swallowed, then thought, and spoke in a nervous laugh.

“I’d have to take off my pants to do that, and I think that Wilbur wouldn’t appreciate that.”

“Oh, I mean…” Wilbur shrugged. “You’re going to have to do it anyways.”

“It’s very cold in here,” Quackity tried next.

“You’ll warm up,” Technoblade replied.

“And I don’t even have a cool outfit,” was the next attempt.

“Do you need one?” Techno asked, staring at him with a stoic expression. Quackity frowned and looked at the pole again.

“I… guess not?” He took his beanie off, revealing a head of thick, dark hair, and walked towards the stage, bracing and pulling himself up it. “I just think this is kind of weird-- I mean, it’s bad practice. Right? I’m not acting crazy?”

“You work for us,” Technoblade said slowly, “we’re going to see this anyways.”

Quackity nodded. “Right…” He looked to the pole again, then hesitantly toed off his slip-on shoes. Next was the jacket, and then his pants, until he was just in underwear and a t-shirt. He looked to Technoblade, and spoke in a small voice as Technoblade simply stared at him alongside Wilbur. Their gazes weren’t sexual, just curious, but he probably felt judged as all hell. Good. It’d make him perform better. “I need music. Just play, like, something normal I can dance to.”

Technoblade looked to Wilbur, and Wilbur took out his phone without a problem. He scrolled through his songs, then glanced up at Quackity. “The best I have is Nelly Furtado.” Technoblade didn’t want to question why his godson had that already in his phone.

“Promiscuous?” Quackity asked almost hopefully, cocking his head.

“Nah. Say It Right.”

“I can work with that.” Quackity wiped his hands on his boxer briefs, and the song started up. 

Quackity got onto the floor, getting on all fours on a whim and moved to the music slowly. His leg stretched out behind him, and his socked toes slid along the floor of the stage as he tried to look absolutely anywhere but Technoblade’s inquisitive gaze. The man brought his head to the floor and arched his back as the song continued, and Technoblade had a strong feeling that he had done this many times for many people. Whether or not he legally did it, or did it as an official job, was up to debate, but he wasn’t bad. Technoblade watched as he gripped the pole and pulled his whole body up with a surprising strength, then curled his leg and used it as leverage to spin around it. He raised his arms up higher and spun around it again as the chorus hit, grinding on the metal.

_Oh, you don't mean nothing at all to me...  
No, you don't mean nothing at all to me…_

Technoblade raised a brow as he held one hand to the pole, bending and arching his back low enough that his hand nearly brushed the ground in the process, his leg farthest from the pole popping out in the process before he elegantly brought himself back up and went in front of it. Quackity raised his arms above his hands, gripping the cool metal and swaying his hips side to side, slow and sensual, daring to make eye contact with Technoblade. Technoblade stared back, and Quackity glanced away. He pulled himself up as he kicked his legs, going backwards suddenly, thighs going to rest on either side of the pole as he hung upside down. His hair hung down, and Technoblade could properly see every inch of his body, feeling an almost movement in his stomach from the sight. Almost. 

Quackity slid down the pole slowly, using the boxers as a way to not horribly burn himself, as he pulled his body upright and made his way back so that he was up in front of the pole again, swaying his hips. Small hands, delicate fingers ran up his sides, brushing his shirt up to show off a fair bit of skin, and Technoblade couldn’t help but smirk at the sight. He wasn’t bad, far from it. If Technoblade had had the overactive libido of most people, he’d find it hot. Quackity bent his legs again, resting on the top of his toes as he stretched his back again, arm going over his head. Technoblade could see the lean muscle in his arms, and he stared for a moment, before bringing his eyes back to Quackity’s expression. Dark eyes met light blue ones, and Quackity gave a grin. So he was a little confident, that was good. They needed some cockiness in him.

The song went on, and Quackity turned his back to Technoblade, bending over to show himself off as he grabbed the pull again and spun himself again. He slowed and stood, rolling his hips forward again and again, obviously watching Technoblade’s eyes that were trained on his thin midsection and the way he moved. He kicked his leg over the side of the pole and bent down with one foot firmly planted on the ground and the other hanging in the air, relying on his calf to hold him up. He bent down and got his fingertips to brush the ground, and Technoblade couldn’t help himself but stare at his ass in tight underwear. It was the focal point of the show, he really couldn’t help it. 

Quackity pressed his back to the pole and slowly rolled his hips down. Down, down, down, until he was in a sitting position as the song faded. He looked to Technoblade expectantly despite Wilbur being his actual boss, and gave a smug grin. Technoblade hadn’t realized when a heat had risen to his face, and he cleared his throat after a moment, while Wilbur laughed.

“That wasn’t bad, seriously. Not bad for being on the spot,” Wilbur spoke warmly as Quackity got up and got his clothes back on one by one. It’s like he was putting them on purposely slowly to tease Technoblade, and Techno forced his gaze away to look at his godson.

“I think he’ll do fine,” was all he had to say, that blush dusting his cheeks. He didn’t notice Quackity staring at him like a cat who’d gotten the fucking cream.

\---

Wilbur’s text rang in at 11:09 pm, and Technoblade was barely awake when he read it. He still had that dance on his mind, unfortunately, and he had been trying to push the thoughts away of Quackity’s dancing, the way he bent and curved. His brain had helpfully popped up with the idea that Quackity could probably get his leg behind his head, no problem, and he had promptly shoved himself in a cold shower and let it pass. He didn’t need to be thinking of that kid that way-- he was an employee. It was weird, and he really tried to push it out of his mind, but Wilbur always fucked him over, as per usual.

**I got about five more dancers to sign on, plus we have Quackity, now. He was impressive.**

Technoblade blinked and rubbed at his face in a tired motion. **I guess.**

**He really has that twink aesthetic that creeps who go to clubs crave.**

Technoblade didn’t want to think about it. **Is this a male strip club, now?**

**I think anyone’s welcome, but I just happen to have a lot of male friends who are performers, I guess.**

How the fuck did Wilbur just have an army of pole dancers at his command? Maybe he had thought this out, but it was still beyond Techno. **Cool.** He just wanted to go to sleep.

**Quackity really liked you, by the way.**

Technoblade didn’t want to think about whether Quackity liked him or not, he wanted to go the fuck to sleep. **That’s nice.** The image of Quackity bent over popped into his head again and he sighed heavily, pushing his face into the pillows, only to lift it when his phone buzzed again. 

**I could tell you liked him too.** Technoblade stared at the words and another message popped up. **I’ve never seen you stare that hard, or blush, for that matter. I didn’t know you even liked guys, or anyone, really.**

Of course Wilbur had to bring it up. Technoblade never got a moment of peace in his life. **I had to watch him dance to judge if he was fit. That’s all it was.** He tossed his phone to the side of his head and pulled a spare pillow over his face, feeling a hot and heavy sensation wash over his body. This was fucking awful, why was one stupid dance affecting him so hard? What was wrong with him? So Quackity had a good ass and could contort his body a little-- who the fuck cared? At the end of the day he was being paid to do it, and Technoblade had enough on his plate, not needing some stupid twenty year old (not even twenty one!) flirting with him because he was working for him. This was all stupid, and he should’ve never agreed to it, he knew that.

Technoblade nearly threw his phone when he heard it buzz again, expecting Wilbur, only to see a message from his boss.

**I have a job for you. 10k for it, but it’s multiple targets. I can text you the details in the morning as it’s worked out and you can agree or not. I’d prefer to give it to you over Dream, though.**

The voices slowly started to work their way up into his system, chattering and murmuring about what the job could entail, what it would mean, how they craved it. Technoblade shut his eyes and pushed his head back into the pillow beneath him. 

He could think about this shit in the morning.


	2. million dollar man

The alarm didn’t sound the next morning as Technoblade had had no reason to set it. He slept in until ten in the morning, a rarity for him, and when he woke up, he stretched and turned onto his back. He could vaguely remember his dream, something bizarre that didn’t make sense. He never had proper dreams, he always had the nightmares that didn’t make sense. Like going back to high school despite being twenty seven, or having to act out the trolley scenario but it was people he admired or loved ones instead of random strangers. All of it didn’t make sense, but then again, most of his life didn’t.

Technoblade lazily reached over, checking his phone that he had somehow remembered to plug in, studying the notifications. There were a few of Wilbur talking about the club, some about job opportunities, and then a text from a number he didn’t recognize. Technoblade had a series of burner phones, swapping out the numbers when he needed to and starting fresh. How had someone gotten his number? He idly stared at the number, then pulled the notification open to reveal the text.

**it was good to meet you, technoblade. wilbur gave me your number, lol. it’s quackity.**

Oh. Oh god, no. Quackity had gotten his number and he was texting him. This was like a nightmare come true. Technoblade stared at the text, his eyes scanning the words, then going back, and scanning them again. The image of Quackity dancing, bent over in front of everyone came to his mind again, and he sighed heavily, ignoring the way his body reacted to that mental image. It was still early in the morning, he really didn’t mean to think about it or respond that way, it just happened.

 **Hi. It was good to meet you, too.** Was that fine to say? It wasn’t weird or predatory, was it? Technoblade watched as the three dots trailed across his screen, waiting for the message to pop up, waiting for his downfall.

**did you like my dance? you seemed pretty into it, lmao.**

Technoblade was going to have a heart attack, he was going to combust. The images in his head became stronger, and he swallowed without meaning to, going to type out another message. **It was okay. Customers will like it.**

The dots appeared again, and the message was almost instant.

**yeah, but did YOU like it?**

This kid was actually trying to kill him. This was so fucked up, and Technoblade stared at the screen, at the words. How cocky was he? Where was that kid who was too scared to get up on the pole out of fear of being judged? Technoblade wanted that kid back, he didn’t want this confident person who asked if he liked watching the ass of a tanned twink dance around onstage. His fingers glided over the keys with a short response that his brain over thought as hard as it possibly could.

**It was okay.**

Another message instantly popped up. Jesus, how eager was this guy to talk to him?

**you’re not much of a talker, r u?**

Technoblade responded easily, thankful for a question that wasn’t about the dance. **No, I’m not.**

**i can tell.**

Another message came right after that.

**it’s chill tho, i can talk for u :)**

Technoblade didn’t have the mental strength for this. He decided to ignore that and turn off read receipts on his phone, choosing instead to look at the notes his boss had sent him. It was a crowd of people at a gathering, and he just had to take them out one by one. That’s why it was paying so much-- they’d all scatter when the first shot rang out. It’d be a bitch to do, and Techno sighed heavily, almost wishing he could push this on Dream. He didn’t want to have to go out and get his hands dirty with some handheld weapon, it wasn’t his style. He preferred to stalk from a distance, despite knowing how to wield a knife just fine. He’d left home at sixteen, he had kind of had to learn how to fend for himself. Technoblade read over the details again then tried to think. If he blocked off exits with something, some kind of lock, they’d all be trapped and he could take them out one by one. Supposedly everyone in the gathering was to be killed, and that was a lot easier than taking out people one by one while hoping you didn’t hit someone innocent. He didn’t enjoy killing people who didn’t deserve it, as much as the voices longed for it. They were starting up again, whispering to him over and over again to take the job, to go for it, to make the money and spill the blood.

His phone dinged with a new message from Quackity.

**sooo, do you want to hang out sometime???**

Technoblade stared at the message, the voices quieting for a moment as he tried to understand what Quackity’s angle was, only to come back stronger. They ached for something he couldn’t provide, they ached for blood.

 **I don’t really hang out with people,** he sent.

There were three dots, and then the message slid in.

**well u can start with me.**

Technoblade hated this. He hated the lack of control he had over the situation, how Quackity wasn’t picking up that no one wanted to talk to him. It wasn’t like Technoblade could do anything, anyways, this was his employee, or whatever. He couldn’t scare him off, Quackity was the best thing they had. He thought of the dance again, Quackity bent over, and he gave a groan of a noise, trying so desperately to ignore the pooling of heat in his stomach. What the fuck was happening, why was he thinking like this? This wasn’t normal, this never happened.

Technoblade decided to take another cold shower to get rid of the thoughts of Quackity. His body wasn’t happy with the icy spray of his shower, but it relented and his issue went down after a few minutes of cold water therapy. He stayed under the water for a good ten minutes, wondering if he could feel more numb than he already did. It was obvious Quackity had a thing for him, and his mind vaguely noted that maybe it wasn’t a bad thing, his brain betraying him. Technoblade took offense to his brain turning against him and cranked up the water higher, staying in the shower a bit longer. After a few minutes of being in the freezing shower more, he got out and grabbed a towel, wringing the water out of his long, pink hair. He looked in the mirror, sighing. 

Why did he always look tired and angry? Why couldn’t he just smile? Why was he like this? 

Technoblade brought his fingers up, going to run over a scar on his left cheek. He’d gotten it from a fight as a teenager, having pulled a knife on the guy in hopes to take his money, only to get his ass kicked. He hadn’t messed with knives for awhile after that, and he tried to stay away from the place he’d done the act in. Technoblade looked at his wet hair, picking up a few strands just to drop them before sighing. He glanced over his shoulder at the clock to see the time, see how much longer he could put off the job, when his phone buzzed. He grabbed it off the sink and unlocked it. A message. From Dream.

**Work with me on that 10k job, we split the money. It’ll be easier to take them out together.**

Well, that could actually work. As much as he detested Dream’s personality, 5k was a good amount and he could easily do the job with someone else. He texted back within a minute of thinking, having made his decision.

**Sounds fine. No bringing knives, though. We’re using rifles and you’re not going to bitch about it.**

The dots appeared, then faded. Technoblade smirked. He had terms for what he wanted, of course. It wasn’t a simple job, there was always a catch.

 **K.** Was the only response Technoblade got.

Technoblade laughed quietly, and the voices purred in happiness. This would be fun.

\---

The club was opening in two days, and the night of the opening he was supposed to do the job. Technoblade figured it wasn’t a big deal, that he could pop in and then get out. He had to look nice for this, though, and was just glad most of his jobs he dressed like the classic hitman he was. It wasn’t his fault he had style and liked to look hot, it was just how the cookie crumbled. December 27th was there in what seemed like days rather than weeks, and Technoblade had finally completed everything on opening night. The pipes had had to be fixed last minute, and he’d spent most of the night trying to get it to work. Finally, it was done, and when he checked the time it was five in the morning. He didn’t even think as he sat down in one of the back rooms for V.I.P. dances that Wilbur had set up, cracking his neck as he stretched and laying back.

It was impossible to stay awake, and he hadn’t even realized he’d fallen asleep in his button up and khakis, hair down around him, until he was being shook awake. Technoblade’s eyes snapped open and he gasped, lunging forward, only to see Wilbur jumping back just in time.

“Christ!” Wilbur said loudly. “I was waking you up, idiot. You fell asleep here and we’re an hour from opening! I’ve been texting you all day, I didn’t know you were _here_.” 

“What time is it?” Technoblade managed in a weak voice, still waking up.

“Almost nine, get up. Go to the bathroom and clean up,” Wilbur replied. Technoblade blinked. Had he really slept over 12 hours? What was wrong with him? The man stood up and headed out of the room, the chair he’d fallen asleep in, his neck aching from the position he’d been in. When he looked in the mirror, all he could notice was his dark stubble that had seemingly grown overnight. In reality, Technoblade hadn’t been taking care of himself, instead throwing himself into the work he had. He and Dream had been planning, and he’d been putting hours into make this club work. Technoblade’s work had paid off. Wilbur had advertised, and it showed when Technoblade exited the bathroom after cleaning up, using it, and spending his time checking Twitter to delay having to go out with a bunch into a crowd of people. 

There was a good gathering at the bar as everything set up, and the lights were dimmed down to the perfect amount. Technoblade had actually put money into getting the right lights, and Wilbur stood in front of the bar, talking to a girl they had hired to pour drinks. Most of the dancers were male, with the exception of Eret and their fluid gender, so she had been hired for some diversity. Technoblade watched Wilbur smile at her, then look to Technoblade, beckoning him over. Technoblade walked through the small crowd of people, trying to pointedly ignore the two main dancers on stage. It was Skeppy and Eret for now, and Technoblade was just thankful Quackity wasn’t here to torment him further. The kid had sent him a selfie the other day, showing off a pair of tight pants he’d bought, and Technoblade had committed the image to memory, thinking about it at the worst of times.

He got over there, and the girl smiled at him, holding up a bottle in offering. Technoblade shook his head. He had shit to do tonight, he couldn’t get drunk. “Techno, this is Captain, she’s our bartender,” Wilbur explained. Technoblade shook her hand and she smiled at him. If he had been into girls much more than the occasional glance on the street, he would’ve found her attractive. 

“It’s good to meet you. You’re the guy that’ll be fighting any creeps off me?” she said with a little laugh. Technoblade nodded a bit, though his expression was as stoic as ever.

“If there’s any trouble, come find me,” Technoblade replied.

She smiled at him, and walked off to pour another drink. Wilbur looked at him. “She’s kind of cute, isn’t she?”

“Not my type,” Technoblade said, glancing to Eret who spun on the pole in a pair of tight underwear, the music booming as they tilted their back while using their thighs to keep themselves up. Britney Spears was playing, right now, something chosen by Wilbur. They had a certain theme of using older songs that invoked some sort of sexy nostalgia. Wilbur knew they’d be having closeted men show up to admire the dancers, probably older and wanting to experience something they hadn’t. Technoblade watched Eret move their arms above their head, thinking the dance would be better if they looked a little smaller, more soft, more like… 

“Oh, I know what your type is. Little men who dance to Nelly Furtado,” Wilbur joked. Technoblade snapped his head over, tearing his gaze from Eret and staring at Wilbur.

“Excuse me?” Technoblade questioned. 

“Come on, man, it’s easy to tell who your favorite is. Quackity’s been telling me what he texts you. He’s really into you, and given from how you are around him, you’re into him, too.” Technoblade opened his mouth to speak, then promptly closed it, glaring at his godson.

“Hey, Wilbur? Shut the fuck up,” he snapped. Wilbur burst into giggles, and he held up a drink Captain had poured for him, the glass clutched between strong fingers.

“He’s got a private show tonight, he’s the main event. Did you know?” Technoblade paled. No. No, this couldn’t be happening, this couldn’t be.

“He’s not twenty one,” Technoblade said with a frown, “he can’t.”

“None of this is legal, live a little,” Wilbur said as he sipped his drink. 

Technoblade couldn’t live a little. He was going to have a heart attack before that happened. “You’re the worst godson ever.”

“Yeah, but you love me,” Wilbur nudged him and pointed to the stage. Quackity was walking out, and the crowd shifted a bit as the Britney ended, and a new one began. It started slow, and Technoblade noted he didn’t recognize the song. It was slow and sensual, and Quackity walked slowly. He didn’t have a shirt on, and had shiny, gold boxer shorts. Technoblade’s blood went somewhere he didn’t want to think about at all, and he stared with wide eyes. Quackity seemed to be scanning the crowd, and he found his target when he locked eyes with Technoblade. He couldn’t look away, Technoblade couldn’t look away, and his mind fogged as the singing started up.

_You said I was the most exotic flower,  
Holdin' me tight in our final hour...  
I don't know how you convince them and get them, babe  
I don't know what you do,  
It's unbelievable...  
And I don't know how you get over, get over  
Someone as dangerous, tainted and flawed as you…_

Everyone else had left the stage, Quackity was the main event and multiple poles were needed for it. He pressed his back to the cool metal of the pole, one Technoblade had sprayed over days ago, his arms slowly raising above his head. Technoblade could only watch as the dancer grabbed the pole and spun around, landing on his knee and sliding against the smooth floor before benching his back and brushing his hand to the floor. It was so sexual, yet it had such an element of class to it. It was exactly what Technoblade craved. Quackity bent back in the opposite direction and tossed his fluffy hair back, sweeping an arm to the side of his body. His hand slid across his leg closest to the audience and he suddenly bent up in a squat, showing off his ass in those tight underwear. Technoblade’s mouth was dry, and he couldn’t notice anyone in the room but Quackity. His dick couldn’t fucking either, apparently.

Quackity stood and held onto the pole as he ran and jumped, using strong arms to keep himself supported as he spun around the pole with no legs to support him, holding up all his body weight. Technoblade stepped a bit closer without meaning to, and Quackity swung lower on the pole until his knee brushed the ground again and he stood. He locked eyes with Technoblade, and even from this distance, Techno could see the look in his eyes. One of lust. Wanting. Quackity then slid and moved across the floor, going close to a pole near the one he started on and picking himself up with a twirl, grabbing the metal and hoisting himself up.

_One for the money, and two for the show...  
I love you, honey,  
I'm ready, I'm ready to go…_

He swung lazily a few times then started scaling the pole in a way that spun him, twisted his back and flipped his hair. When he neared the top section of the pole, he spread his legs as he spun. Techno could see the bulge in his pants, and he stared for a moment as Quackity spun further, moving himself upside down and hanging there while he spun. Technoblade had to stare, he had to, he couldn’t help himself. The chorus ended and Quackity was back on his feet, holding onto the pole while he stared down Technoblade, then pushed his chest against it, popping out his ass in the process. Fucking show off. The crowd loved it, though, cheering, and Technoblade could only watch as he went back to spinning, powerful legs keeping him upright. What Techno wouldn’t give to have his head between those fucking thighs… _what was wrong with him?_ He was eyefucking this kid, his goddamn employee. This was so messed up. He could only watch as Quackity planed his legs on either side of the pole and inched his body down, putting weight on the balls of his feet as he rocked his hips forward.

_It isn't that hard, boy, to like you or love you,  
I'd follow you down, down, down…_

“He’s good, huh?” Wilbur asked with a cheeky grin. Technoblade tore his gaze away and looked to Wilbur, then at Quackity, needing to leave right there and then. He pushed past Wilbur to the bathrooms, heading in and locking the door behind him with the bathroom key so no one would get in. He couldn’t bear to have someone see him like this. Technoblade didn’t want to do it, he didn’t, he didn’t want any of this. He listened to the bass of the music outside the bathroom as he quickly unbuttoned his pants, hoping to get this over with as fast as possible. He didn’t want to think about anything as he did it, but his brain betrayed his need for some comfort, to not think about Quackity.

He thought of Quackity on his bed, legs spread like they had been while he was in the air, those tight underwear not leaving anything up to interpretation. He gasped as his fingers made contact with his clothed hard-on, finger light touches like he figured Quackity would use to tease him. His brain didn’t understand Spanish as well as it should, but it was coming up with ideas. It was coming up with him fucking Quackity until Quackity was shouting his name, only his name. Technoblade shoved his boxer briefs down a bit, slowly stroking his dick. He wasn’t small by any means, but he had a feeling Quackity would like that. He had a feeling Quackity would like anything he gave him. He moved his ministrations up a bit, bracing one hand to the wall of the bathroom, back hunched over as he groaned softly.

Quackity’s thighs, his perfect thighs, wrapped around Technoblade’s head. Squeezing so softly. Quackity could probably crush his head if he wanted to, he could _hurt_ Technoblade if he really wanted to. Quackity could hurt him with one of his knives, have it against his throat. Technoblade slammed his eyes shut as he stroked himself faster, hissing out a noise through his teeth. Quackity would press the knife to his throat, using those wide brown eyes, using that look in his eyes. He could press the knife in until it hurt, he could sit there and tease Technoblade until he was fucking putty. Quackity could pull his hair, scratch his fucking back up, Quackity could fucking _ruin_ him. He would lose all control he had, and Technoblade’s hand stuttered at that thought.

He came over his fist with a groan, dipping his head and panting, shoulders shaking from the feeling of cumming that hard. He hadn’t really gotten off to anything in so long, and usually it was just porn, not someone he had in mind. Technoblade sighed slowly and went to yank some paper towels from the dispenser, cleaning himself up. What the fuck was wrong with him? He felt positively shameful, and he wiped up everything, then washed his hands twice, as if to scrub off the sin. He looked in the mirror at his own hooded eyes, his disheveled face, and dipped his head again, hands braced on the sink counter.

This was such a fucking mistake.

He exited the bathroom after unlocking the door, a man standing outside it, glaring at him for taking so long. Technoblade brushed by him and walked towards the front door. Wilbur cornered him. “You’re not leaving, no way,” his godson said quickly, blocking his way. Technoblade growled at him.

“I have shit to do, I have a job tonight,” the older man said with an edge to his voice. 

Wilbur shook his head. “This _is_ your job, dickhead.” Technoblade gave a bitter laugh.

“This is nothing. You can handle it yourself.” 

He exited and got to his car, heading home to get his gear. This was going to be a horrible night, he just knew it.

\---

Dream was cocky, he always had been ever since Technoblade had known him. They had a rivalry of sorts, but Technoblade liked to think of him as a mentee, with himself having a couple years on the kid and knowing more. They had practiced together, Technoblade showing Dream how to properly disarm people without breaking their bones, how to not leave a trace that you had been there. They sat on the hill overlooking the house that held the party with their targets. All of them were outside, mingling, and Technoblade could just tell they were rich bastards. They were smoking, laughing and drinking. Technoblade worked on getting his Remington out, starting to take the pieces out one by one, as Dream watched through the scope of his Jaeger. He had been smart enough to listen to Technoblade’s instructions and bring his rifle. He glanced over to Technoblade through the fabric of his mask. He was always wearing it, and his green hoodie. It was really just a bandana you could see through, but the eerie smile of it was something else. It sometimes gave Technoblade the creeps.

“I slashed every car tire there, if they start running, they won’t get anywhere,” he said with ease. Technoblade nodded as he put together the rifle, locking the magazine in place then scooting himself onto his belly, staring through it. “Dibs on the dude with the cigar. I wanna blow his fuckin’ head off, he looks like a dick.” Dream said this with no humor in his voice, apparently liking to kill for fun, just like Technoblade. Or at least Technoblade’s voices, that is. He nodded and listened to the quiet murmur in his ears, the voices pleased he was doing this. At the bottom of everything, he was pleased, too.

Technoblade stared down the scope, then glanced to Technoblade and nodded. The first shot from his Remington fired and it hit its target, a scrawny man in a tailored suit that hugged his body falling to the ground. There was a shout, people started moving, and Dream fired alongside him, getting the cigar smoker in the chest, throwing him back as he gasped while blood filled his lungs. Technoblade went for a man cowering by a table, getting him in the head and watching the blood splatter on white tablecloth. Dream managed to get another target in the skull, and Technoblade scanned the area through his scope.

“One of them’s going to the car,” Technoblade said with a chuckle that almost rang through with pity. Dream grinned under his mask, messing with a controller he had left out, pressing it a few times and waiting. All at once, the car exploded, the man flying back. Technoblade laughed loudly as the car burned. They were out in the country again, it’d take the police or anyone a while to get out here. Technoblade stood and started taking apart the rifle, but Dream frowned. He nudged Technoblade gently.

“Cigar smoker is still alive, come on.” Technoblade glanced over his shoulder at the man struggling to get himself to sit up, and got the rest of the things put away. He trailed down the hill as the voices screamed at him to make the smoker suffer, to make him bleed. They hopped the fence to the backyard and strolled over to the man. Dream lazily watched him choke on his blood, and then looked to Technoblade. “Coin flip to see who gets it?”

Technoblade shrugged. “I’ll take heads, I guess.”

Dream produced a penny from his pocket, balancing it on his thumb. He jerked his thumb up and the coin flew up into the air, before he brought his hand down over it, smacking it onto the back of his hand, then peeked at the results. “Damn, you get it, I guess. I was really hoping for this.” Technoblade laughed in a low chuckle and produced a knife from his pocket, one he kept for emergencies. He stepped closer to the man, and stared down at him for a moment.

The man gurgled and stared up at him in fear, and Technoblade gave a serene smile as voices echoed around him.

 _Blood for the blood god, blood for the blood god, blood for the blood god…_ they cooed to him. He crouched himself down in front of the man, and sighed softly, bringing the knife up to his throat.

“Thanks for the 5k, I really appreciate it.”

He jerked the knife, slitting the smoker’s throat open, and watched blood pour out. The man gurgled one last time and went still. The voices cheered his name, pleased as their shrill tones pierced the air around him in victory. Technoblade looked over at his shoulder at Dream, staring into his mask, the soulless eyes and eerie smile.

“Alright, let’s get out of here,” Technoblade said, standing and brushing himself off.

They left without a trace, into the night. All that showed they had been there was the carnage they had left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cranky 'cause you're horny, aren't you technoblade?
> 
> anyways, thanks for reading. million dollar man has been playing in my head all day and i just had to use it. ft. genderfluid eret, a slutty latino dancer, and technoblade who hasn't been horny in literal months.


	3. idfc

Despite the minor fuck-up of jacking off in the bathroom, Technoblade thought the club was doing rather well. They were making a good amount, able to pay everyone and still come out on top. The entry fee was the right price, able to draw people in but still bring forth a good amount of money. The club boomed as Wilbur and Technoblade sat in their back office, talking idly. The music blared outside as Wilbur counted through a stack of bills, whispering the numbers under his breath as he went. Suddenly, Captain came bursting in, eyes wide. 

“Some douchebag won’t get away from Quackity. He did his lapdance for the guy and now he won’t leave him alone.” She expectantly looked to Technoblade, who sighed and stood, pushing his chair out behind him as he got up, going out the door with Quackity. Quackity was kind of a trouble, just due to how much he flirted with… everyone. None of the dancers complained when he was grinding on them onstage, luckily, tanned fingers running over their curves. Eret has even gone as far to kiss Quackity while up there, their mouths moving in time before they part and get back to dancing. In a way, it’s kind of like a fucked up family. They’re all in it together, and they all support each other. The job can be hard when customers get fucked up and don’t respect boundaries. They’ve been open for a month, it’s bound to happen.

It was more of an alternative night that night-- they have themed nights, apparently. Monday and Tuesday are all pop songs, Wednesday is half priced lapdances, Thursday they break out Britney Spears, Friday and Saturday are anything goes, but it’s all sensual shit. Technoblade, unfortunately, loved watching Quackity dance to a breathy singer, watching him pull himself up with strong muscles and spin around a pole like it’s nothing. It had been plaguing his mind, and he was still even texting Quackity. He texted the kid on his birthday, congratulating him for hitting the last cool milestone of ages, and PayPal’d him a hundred dollars as a gift. It was the least he could do. Quackity had sent back an image of him at a party, sitting there in short shorts and a tight tank top as he drank a mixed drink lazily, winking at the camera. Technoblade had relied on the picture a few times for help with his… issues. He could see the muscle in those thighs even in the dim lighting the picture held, and he felt as if he his libido had done a 180, as if Quackity had awoken something in his stupid, fucked up brain.

He spotted Quackity in the dark club, and made his way over through the small crowd of people. The guy had a hand on Quackity’s arm, and a dangerous, drunken look in his eyes. Technoblade grabbed his wrist without thinking about it and pried the fingers away from tanned skin, curling them back in the process and twisting the digits. The man shouted in pain, and he looked to Technoblade with outrage.

“Get out,” Technoblade said, voice low.

“This slut ripped me off--” the man growled. Technoblade noted the way Quackity almost shrunk back, hiding behind the wall that was Technoblade.

“That’s cool-- _get the fuck out_.” Technoblade’s voice was firm but obviously pissed. He was protective of any of his employees, but he was especially protective of Quackity, who texted him stupid memes and told him his hair was pretty. It was nothing.

The man wrenched his arm away and he stormed off towards the door.

“Don’t forget to give us a one star on Yelp, motherfucker!” Quackity shouted after him. Technoblade glanced over with an amused expression, and Quackity smiled at him. “Thanks for handling him.” He stepped closer, not even thinking about it, and he ran his fingers over Technoblade’s forearm. “I really need to pay you back for all of this.”

Technoblade was just glad the club was dark enough that no one could see the blush staining his cheeks. “You really don’t.”

Quackity stepped closer, hand sliding from Technoblade’s arm to his chest. Technoblade froze up, and he stared down at Quackity. “I could give you a private dance sometime.” God, it was so tempting, it was absolutely tempting. The idea of Quackity in his lap, grinding against him… a spark ran through Technoblade at the thought, but he forced himself to shake his head.

“Not tonight,” he said evenly. Quackity’s hand was still on his chest, and it felt like a fire against his clothed skin.

Quackity pouts. “You can’t avoid me forever.” Technnoblade took this time to admire Quackity in his full, with that expression on. It was alternative night, so Quackity has a lot more on than he normally did. His arms had tons of bracelets on them, all thin and vibrant colors, and he was wearing dark eye makeup that looked just enough unprofessionally done that it makes it sexy. He had fishnets on under his black shorts, and his hair was flat-ironed. Combined with that pout, it reminded Technoblade of the girls who he would develop crushes on in school back when he was thirteen. They were mysterious, listened to loud music, and consistently cursed in class. For some reason, he’d found it hot as hell. He wondered vaguely if Quackity dressed like those girls when he was in middle school, which spawned the idea of Quackity dressing up like a girl for _him_. 

Technoblade blinked, needed to regroup his thoughts. “I’m not avoiding you. I’m always texting you, and you never leave me alone.” _Not that I mind._ “You have me, don’t worry.” Quackity’s pout softened at that, and he glanced down to his hand on Technoblade’s chest, then back up at his face. Technoblade felt his face heat up even more at that gaze, so inquisitive. Something in him told him to back up, get the fuck out of there, and hide until he didn’t have that warm feeling of something akin to affection in his stomach. He backed up slowly, and Quackity let his hand fall, still staring.

“I should… get back to dancing…” Quackity said awkwardly. Technoblade nodded. Quackity took one last look at him and headed out, making the knots in Technoblade’s stomach worsen. He nodded again and watched Quackity slowly walk off, watching the way his hips moved as he did so. Even when not trying, he put on a show. Technoblade needed a drink. He got Captain to pour him and rum and coke and headed back to the office, easing into his chair. 

Not much went on for a few hours. Technoblade looked at budgets and Wilbur counted money, did everything he needed to. Every few moments he’d slip out and he’d come back with more money and go back to counting. The selling was going well-- they didn’t skimp out on their drugs, and Wilbur was careful about his customers. The minutes turned to hours as Technoblade messed around on his phone. Finally he got up to go check on everyone, make sure everything was going on okay. 

He slipped out of the office and trailed around. Eret was the main act tonight, swinging on the pole with ease as the crap hits of 2006 emo blasted around the club. They always got a certain two types on alternative nights. It was either scary punk dudes who wanted to see twunks dance to the music they listened to in middle school, or repressed men who wanted to see something they would never, ever publicly have. He watched Eret for a moment, hoping nothing would happen like he’d go falling to the ground. They’d had it before when someone had used lotion before they got on the pole, and Eret had been the unfortunate one to slip and hit the stage. They'd regained their composure and kept going, but Technoblade saw Skeppy rubbing a cream into their bruised thigh later, the touches like you would give to a hurt friend, someone you wanted to keep safe.

Technoblade went to get another drink and he walked past a door in the hallway, pausing at the noise on the other side of it. It was marked private, and the noises didn’t sound family friendly. Technoblade sighed as he mentally prepared himself to get some stupid customers out of the area, but he wasn’t prepared for the right sight in the slightest. Opening the door, he got a great fucking view, and he was pissed.

Quackity was bent over a table, his cheek pressed to the wood of it as a man stood behind him. The man’s hands were strong things, and they gripped into Quackity’s hips, hard enough to bruise. Quackity’s noises were loud as he was fucked roughly, no care put into it. The man’s face was against Quackity’s hair, shoved in the dark, sweaty hair as he growled out words Technoblade couldn’t hear. Quackity’s eyes locked with Technoblade’s, and while the man didn’t notice someone had walked in, the dancer sure as hell did. He gasped and moaned, eyes falling shut, and Technoblade quickly stepped out of the doorway as they continued, taking all his effort not to slam the door. 

What the fuck was that. Technoblade looked to the door again. Quackity obviously wasn’t being coerced, someone would have grabbed Technoblade the second something happened, or Quackity would have shouted for help, or something. He thought of the man in his elegantly dressed suit, the pants just barely pushed down, his tie loose around his neck, and his messy yet perfectly styled hair. He had a strong nose, and long sideburns that basically reached down his chin, reminding Technoblade of a goat. Technoblade’s head was spinning, and he headed back to the office with his drink, his hand shaking the liquid ever so slightly.

“Quackity’s fucking some dude in the storage closet,” Technoblade deadpanned, forcing the anger out of his voice. Why was he angry? He didn’t care about who Quackity fucked. He didn’t care that it wasn’t him. He didn’t give a flying fuck. Quackity could sleep with whoever the fuck he wanted. 

Wilbur looked up and faltered. “He’s-- uh…” He looked away, then glanced back. “He’s doing a service.”

Technoblade didn’t think he could get angrier, but those words made it possible. “You’re selling him out like a fucking whore?” His eyes narrowed. “You’re selling him like that’s in the fucking job description?!”

Wilbur flinched at the sudden rise in volume. “It’s-- it’s fine! I didn’t tell you, and he offered to do it! It’s just him doing it, he just does it--”

“LIKE THAT’S ANY BETTER?!” Technoblade screamed, stepping forward. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

“We’re running a business! We’re selling fucking cocaine, I thought that maybe we could add on another service! You’re just pissed because it’s not you!” Wilbur shrank back after he said his last sentence as Techno walked close to the desk, leaning over it and getting in his godson’s face, looking at the fear in his eyes.

“Mention anything about Quackity and I again, and I swear to god, you’ll be the next fucking target of my job.” Technoblade’s teeth were bared as he growled out the words, his sharp bottom canines on display. Wilbur had used to say they looked like a pig’s tusks, but here they were terrifying. “Do you fucking understand me? I’m not playing games anymore, Wilbur. You either tell me every last fucking piece of information that goes on in this place, or you leave me the fuck out of it and you handle it yourself.”

Wilbur nodded with wide eyes, and Technoblade straightened himself, trying to calm his nerves as he stepped towards the wall. There was a picture on it of their little family on opening day, one Wilbur had insisted on. He looked at Quackity’s stupid, beautiful, annoying, perfect smile and felt that rage build up in him again.

“Tech--” Wilbur began.

Technoblade slammed his fist into the drywall without thinking about it, yanking his hand back from the hole he’d created and staring at his now pulsing fist. It felt good, the pain grounded him, and he watched Wilbur jump up and run over to check him. 

“Jesus Christ, Technoblade, what the fuck--”

Technoblade yanked his shoulder away from where Wilbur could touch it and stormed out. Quackity was walking out of the hallway, looking much more put together than he had been, and the man strolled behind him, his appearance back in order. The dancer b-lined for Techno, and went to speak, as if to explain himself.

“Hey, Technoblade, I’m really sorry--” he began. Technoblade pushed past him, practically knocking him to the ground in the process. The man caught him easily, and straightened him, watching Technoblade head out the front door and slam it behind himself. Once outside he headed down in the cold, jacket pulled tight around him as he stormed through the January streets. He got his aching hand to cooperate and pull out the cigarettes he desperately craved, and he lit on, taking a long drag and exhaling as he stopped at a brick wall of a nearby business.

Fuck Quackity. He thought he could really flirt with him then fuck some hot ass dude, some dude in a suit more expensive than anything Technoblade owned. He was leaving Technoblade behind. He was ditching him, he was betraying him. The voices screamed to do something, to hurt someone, and Technoblade growled at the ground, his eyes shooting daggers at the concrete. Fuck this, fuck everything. The worst part was that Quackity would text him and he’d use one of his stupid little smiling selfies and Techno would be back. Technoblade took his phone from his pocket in a rash decision and threw it to the ground, listening to the glass shatter. He stomped on it once and ground his heel into it, then huffed and took another drag. He had burner phones, but Quackity only had the one number. If Quackity didn’t want him, he didn’t fucking need Quackity.

He finished the cigarette and put it out under his boot, right next to the phone, and walked off down the dark path back to his house.

He didn’t need anyone.

\---

After anger came bargaining, and Technoblade was trying to see if he could boot up his iPhone at five in the morning. He was just trying to see if he could transfer the data, Quackity’s number, to his other burner phone. Nothing was backed up, so of course he fucking couldn’t. He sighed and tried to remember Wilbur’s number, and got it right on the first try, surprisingly.

**Give your dad this number when he wakes up. It’s Technoblade.**

He gets a thumbs up emoji in response and goes back to sleep.

\---

Technoblade arrived at the Watson house with the grace and poise of a tweaker. His car had stopped working and he’d had to jump it in the parking lot of his apartment complex, begging some random old lady to allow him to hook up the cables and get it started. Phil insisted that they have a family breakfast every Sunday, and the car had decided it’d had enough. Luckily, she had started up after a few revs and she was going down the road like a cancer patient of a car, trying to break down. Fuck, he needed a new car. On the way there, he had thrown his phone on shuffle, glad to at least have music. A song had popped up, and its words were loud in his ears.

_Tell me pretty lies.  
Look me in the face,  
Tell me that you love me.  
Even if it's fake.  
'Cause I don't fucking care, at all…_

Technoblade pressed skip as fast as he could, and the next song popped on.

_When I wake up, I'm afraid,  
Somebody else might take my place...  
When I wake up, I'm afraid,  
Somebody else might take my place…_

His eyes flickered over to the phone, and he quickly hit skip again.

_So many stars in the sky and I don't know why,  
They always have to fall on me...  
Maybe I'm blind to all of the signs,  
That the world never wanted me--_

Jesus that was fucking depressing. Technoblade yanked the aux cord from his phone, electing to turn off the music.

Getting into the house and actually forcing himself out of the car and out of his thoughts was a struggle. He really didn’t want to see Wilbur, or anyone for that matter. After bargaining came depression, and he was longing to crawl back in bed. He finally moved himself out of the car and entered the home, feeling January cold leave him as he stepped inside the heated room. Tommy came running up, and he forced a smile down at his youngest godson to try and get the feeling of dread out of his stomach.

“Wilbur got a new job! Did you know? He gave me twenty dollars for cleaning his room,” Tommy chirped, making Technoblade glance over to Wilbur, who sat on the couch. Wilbur sipped his coffee as he made eye contact, then looked back down at his phone. Ah, so everyone was in the dark.

“That’s awesome. Congrats on the job, Wilbur,” Technoblade said evenly. Wilbur smiled at him and raised his coffee in thanks. Phil popped his head out of the kitchen.

“It’s his first actual job, I’m so proud,” he chattered, Technoblade forcing the expression of pity off his face, “he’s running a little business.”

“What… is this business?” Technoblade asked. What had Wilbur come up with?

“He runs a studio for dancers. Said he’ll show it to us once everything’s in order. I didn’t even know you could dance, Wilbur.” Technoblade stared at Wilbur, who gave an awkward chuckle.

“I’m full of surprises.” His smile was smug, but Technoblade could see the fear under that mask. He was a fucking idiot.

“Right…” Technoblade went to grab the newspaper off the table. Might as well catch up on the news since he’d spent all morning avoiding any media besides Quackity’s Instagram. He figured that maybe since this dude Quackity fucked was so cool, there’d be pictures of him, pictures of the stupid smirk he had and that breakable nose. He flipped and skimmed through, landing on a page and halting his actions.

 **YOUNG POLITICIAN RISING IN POPULARITY** the headline read, and underneath was a smiling man. A smiling man with a sharp nose, a bright grin, and those stupid sideburns. He had his hands pushed in his pockets as he leaned against a desk. He couldn’t have been older than 26. It was the fucking guy. It was the guy who had been railing Quackity in a club. He was a politician, and yet he was going to clubs to fuck short, Mexican twinks in a back room of a club that cost less than he made in a fucking year. Technoblade gawked at the photo, and Tommy noticed. 

“Did something bad happen? You look like you saw something fucked up,” he said. 

“Language!” Phil shouted from the kitchen.

“No… no, I--” Technoblade tried to laugh it off. “Just this politician looks stupid.” He held up the photo for Tommy, but caught Wilbur’s eyes and jerked his head down to get him to look. Wilbur adjusted his glasses then stared, looking up at Technoblade with wide eyes. Apparently he didn’t know either.

“He does look rather stupid,” Tommy said after studying the picture. Technoblade bit back a comment about how he was going to look a lot stupider after he was fucking through with him. He turned the paper back to himself and got a name. Schlatt. Schlatt had fucked Quackity, and Technoblade was going to ruin his life in return. Technoblade set down the paper and got his pack of Marlboros out of his coat pocket, and headed out the door, giving Wilbur the eye to get him to follow.

He stood on the porch and lit a cigarette, then gave one to Wilbur when he showed up. They were business partners now, he figured he could give the kid a freebie. Wilbur took his lighter and lit the cigarette while Technoblade tried to form a coherent thought other than _murder the stupid guy who looks like a goat._ “He’s a fucking politician, and he’s having sex with Quackity on the daily?”

“He’s only been in twice, apparently he’s from around town, got the club recommended to him. I swear-- I swear on my life--, I had no idea,” Wilbur said as he exhaled smoke, eyes wide. He gestured with his cigarette. “We need that money, though, I’m not letting your feelings get in the way of a man who could be a regular and invite his rich friends to us. Think of how well we could do!" Wilbur lowered his voice then spoke in a whisper, awed in a way. "He bought a gram and a half off of me _twice_."And if he’s doing it, his friends will be, too. We can make so much money off this!”

Technoblade grit his teeth. Wilbur was right, viewing this from a business standpoint. But Technoblade had feelings, and they were rearing their ugly heads. He took a drag off his cigarette, sighing out the smoke. “Fine. Whatever. Quackity can be with whoever the fuck he wants, anyways.”

“He’s doing it to make money, not because he wants to date Schlatt,” Wilbur said quickly. “If you ruin this for me, I’m going to be pissed-- dad needs this money and I do, too. My savings were spent from this, and I do school almost every day. Get it out of your head that they’re a thing, get rid of it-- this-- this is a _business transaction_. Most sex workers don’t have a relationship or feelings for their customers. It’s just for money.” Wilbur pinched the butt of the cigarette between his teeth and went to adjust the scarf he had thrown on to deal with the cold. Technoblade stared past Wilbur and out onto the snowy yard. He sighed heavily and went to tuck his hair that he hadn’t bothered to braid behind his ears. 

“It’s still fucking stupid,” Technoblade said as he took another drag off the cigarette and sighed it out his nose.

“That’s the way business goes, I guess. I'm really sorry, seriously, I am.” He stared at the yard with Technoblade for a moment, then looked to Technoblade. “Quackity says to text him, by the way. He's been aggressively texting me.”

“I broke my phone,” Technoblade said, not bothering to look over at Wilbur, continuing to stare at the yard.

“Wait, what? But you’re texting dad and I still?” Wilbur gave a confused expression.

“Two phones. Burner phones. I broke the other one.”

“I can give you Quackity’s number, he's been blowing up my phone--” Wilbur attempted.

“Don’t need it,” Technoblade turned to face him and blew the smoke in his mouth just above the man’s head. “He’s an employee, I don’t need a relationship with him.”

"He keeps texting me with those dogs emojis and I can't get him to shut up."

" _I don't need it_ ," Technoblade repeated, though it was much harsher than the first time he said it.

Wilbur sighed and gave up. “Just stay friendly, I guess...” Wilbur finally warned.

“When am I not?” 

Wilbur laughed softly at that, his breath coming out as puffs into the air. They stayed on the porch until their cigarettes went out, and Technoblade glanced back at the yard one last time. He hoped the snow would melt soon and bring forth that new chapter bullshit with spring. He hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> little baby has anger issues? little baby pig man has anger issues? little baby pig man break shit?
> 
> and yes. schlatt is here now, boys. welcome to the schlatt administration.


	4. cannibal

Technoblade did his best to avoid the club for a week. He didn’t go in, he didn’t even go near it. He just checked his phone idly, looking at Wilbur’s updates on things. Business was booming, and Wilbur was begging for some help, but all Technoblade could think about was the fact that he’d have to face Quackity if he went. He puttered around his apartment for a week and some hours, taking random jobs and going over to Phil’s to properly check on Wilbur when he needed to. From what he knew, Wilbur wasn’t actually using the drugs, just selling them. Anything was possible in this kind of business, though. He wasn’t sure about the state of his dancers, but no one had told Wilbur that they were using. Wilbur had mentioned something in the past about Quackity “experimenting” at parties, but Technoblade didn’t pay any mind to it. Just because you were taking Xanax in college didn’t mean you were a full blown addict-- it meant you were in fucking college. Technoblade had done stupid shit when he was Wilbur’s age, having gone to college for a year to major in English and dropping out when he figured out that the college scene wasn’t for him.

He resigned after a week of Wilbur texting him to come to fucking work and stop avoiding the problem, as well as stalking Quackity’s Instagram for updates, to actually show up. It took a lot of mental convincing, knowing this was one of Quackity’s nights and that he would be tormented the entire time. He had to actually get himself dressed and shower, but even that was a struggle. He didn’t have depression, just had a stupid funk over the dancer with a good ass. Vaguely, he wondered if it’d even be a good idea to drink while he was there, afraid of getting out of control and actually damning himself by going up to Quackity and talking to him. He ignored that thought and got ready, pulling on his white button-up and rolling up the sleeves, brushing and braiding his hair, then getting his coat on and heading outside. The end of January was especially cold in the city, for some fucking reason. February would hopefully be nicer, but Technoblade wasn’t sure of even that.

He headed out the door and made the three block trip to the club. They had been open for an hour already, and Technoblade nodded to the bouncer as he stepped inside. It reeked of cigarette smoke in there, but Technoblade was used to it. He glanced around through the dim lighting of the place. They had a somewhat good turn-out right now, and Skeppy was standing onstage with a few other dancers, hamming it up with the confidence of someone who was 6’5”, not his actual height. Technoblade sighed and walked towards his office, heading inside and closing the door behind him. Wilbur looked up from the papers he had in front of him when Technoblade entered and gave a small smile.

“You finally decided to come in,” he said. Technoblade nodded.

“I unfortunately own this club with you, and capitalism forces me to do things I don’t want to,” he deadpanned as he went to sit at his desk, rummaging around through reports on his desk, looking for any complaints. A dancer had been sexual harassed by a customer, Eret wanted better rates for lapdances, and everything else was stupid shit he didn’t care about. Technoblade scrubbed at his jaw as he tried to focus on his work, taking a pen and scribbling down some notes idly. He glanced to Wilbur, then back down at his work. He had really forgotten how boring this job was when you were a boss and not a dancer who had to please everyone. He thumbed through reviews and suggestions, then sighed.

“This is boring.” Technoblade ached to actually do something-- he was a man of action.

“Go find something to do, then,” Wilbur replied, adjusting his glasses as he stared down at the numbers he had written in a notebook, idly punching in numbers into a calculator app on his phone. Technoblade nodded and stood, heading out of the office. The crowd had grown a bit as Quackity danced. It was a pop night, and he really did have the moves to pull it off. Apparently Quackity came up with most of the dance routines for everyone, and Technoblade admired him being a sort of head-stripper, despite everything. Quackity wasn’t stupid-- he was just a person who longed to be in a position of power. Through texts from weeks ago that Technoblade gave half-assed replies to, he had revealed that he had travelled all over as a kid, with his dad constantly losing his job. What he had known was that he was a performer at heart, eager to get eyes on himself. Technoblade had found that before this, he had done webcamming of sorts, and had upgraded as he got better in the dance classes he had taken, moving onto pole dancing as a sport, and eventually stripping. Technoblade watched him hang off the pole, rolling his hips as he did so, the music booming as he moved.

_I eat boys up, breakfast and lunch,  
Then when I'm thirsty, I drink their blood,  
Carnivore, animal, I am a cannibal,  
I eat boys up, you better run--_

Technoblade watched with curious eyes as Quackity jumped off the pole and landed on the stage, turning around and bending over, shaking his ass. He had on what essentially was glorified lingerie, his ass looking perfect in the dark blue panties. Technoblade watched as men stood close to the stage, and Quackity approached one, swaying his hips as he lowered himself into a squat. The man looked amazed, and tucked a bill into his underwear, which brought a grin to Quackity’s face as he strolled back, going to climb the pole as the chorus of the song continued. He slid around, and his eyes met Technoblade’s from across the club and he smiled, then continued, flipping his long hair out of his eyes.

Technoblade decided very quickly that he was too sober for this night and got a drink from Captain, humming as he sipped it and went to check the back room where the dancers went to rest. He checked on Eret who was busy on their phone, and nodded to them, then headed out. Quackity was still dancing, and he watched for a little bit longer before heading off to the bathroom solely to hide in a stall and play on his phone while he drank. He tried to ignore the fact that his dick had taken interest to Quackity’s performance, and he sighed as he let the door to the bathroom close. Technoblade looked in the mirror for almost a minute, just studying his exhausted eyes, his stubble that he needed to shave to keep up his cool pink-hair and elven like look. He glanced up when the door opened, and there stood Quackity.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Quackity spoke as the door closed. Technoblade felt cornered. Quackity had a look in his eyes like he wanted something, but his pupils were blown. Technoblade tried not to pay attention or think about it as Quackity stepped closer. In response, he stepped back, and Quackity stepped even closer. They did this dance until Technoblade had his back against the sink counter, and Quackity was right in front of him. The dancer leaned in and pushed his face to the skin of Technoblade’s neck, inhaling the smell of the skin, there. God, Quackity couldn’t do this to him, he couldn’t. It wasn’t fair. The man shoved his knee up between Technoblade’s legs, giving him some friction, and Technoblade took it. He started grinding his hips, humping Quackity like a fucking dog. This was insane-- this had to be a wet dream, it had to be.

“You’re a virgin, aren’t you?” Quackity murmured against his neck. A shudder ran through Technoblade and he nodded silently, still moving his hips. “I can’t wait to fuck it out of you-- ride you sometime and make you belong to someone.” He pulled back and looked into Technoblade’s hooded eyes, listening to his boss’s breath pick up as he rolled his hips harder. “You’ve probably never even kissed someone with those pretty lips, huh, _cariño_?” This was too fucking much, and Technoblade blushed at the whine that came from his own throat. What the fuck was that? What the _fuck_ was he making that noise for? Quackity chuckled and went to run his fingers through Technoblade’s hair, only to yank it and pull him into a crushing kiss. It was really a mashing of mouths, with Technoblade forcing himself to get the hang of things. He rolled his hips harder as they kissed, and Quackity slipped his tongue into Technoblade’s mouth. He tasted like booze and smoke, and Technoblade moaned at the taste of something so fucking filthy. 

All at once, Quackity pulled his knee back, then stepped back completely. Technoblade shook his head, going to speak and plead for him to put it back, but Quackity sunk to his knees. Oh, god, it was happening. Technoblade had thought about this moment long enough, and he pushed his hand into Quackity’s dark hair as the man worked on his belt. It took a second, and Technoblade’s cock was throbbing from just having to fucking wait on this shit. Quackity took his time to unbutton and unzip Technoblade’s khakis, then grinned brightly at the sight of his underwear and the obvious hard-on he had.

“ _Ay Dios **mio** , jefe_. You’re not making this easy on me, huh? You have a fucking python in your pants.” Technoblade blushed and looked away, making Quackity dig his nails into the small bit of skin showing from where Technoblade’s underwear ended and his pants began. “Look at me. Look at me while you do this, I want to see you fall apart because of my mouth.” He grinned up at Technoblade, looking at his lust filled eyes and horribly turned on expression. “I’ve been wanting to do this since I met you, you don’t even _know_ how excited I am for this shit-- _mierda,... Estas tan emocionado por mi-- todo para mi, **sólo** para mí…_” Technoblade definitely didn’t know Spanish, but he got the gist of what Quackity was trying to tell him. Quackity wanted him.

Quackity seemed to pick up the pace after that, getting into it. He slowly slid down Technoblade’s underwear until they were down and Technoblade’s dick was free from the fabric confines and looked up. He maintained the eye contact as he wrapped a small hand around Technoblade’s length and licked a stripe up the side of it. Technoblade groaned, then pushed a hand over his mouth, still staring down at Quackity’s eyes. Those beautiful fucking eyes. Those pretty eyes that would look so lovely when wet with tears. Quackity wrapped his lips around the head of Technoblade’s cock and sucked slowly, going to move and press Technoblade’s hips back against the counter of the bathroom sink when the older man’s hips jerked forward at the contact. He hissed out a noise as Quackity started taking more of his dick. He wasn’t small, he was a good eight inches, maybe a little more, but Quackity was a professional. Technoblade bit into the skin of the hand over his mouth, strangling out a moan as Quackity stared up at him, those soft eyes looking so innocent while Technoblade’s dick was in his fucking mouth. His eyes were trained on reading Technoblade’s expression as the tip of his dick hit the back of the dancer’s throat. He shifted and pushed his head down further, ignoring the tears that were brought to his eyes at the sensation as his throat took Technoblade perfectly, like his cock was made to fucking be there.

Technoblade watched him stop moving, still staring up with those watery eyes, and he gave a little growl. He gripped Quackity’s hair and pulled him back by it, only to snap his hips forward and listen to the choking noise that the younger man made in response. It was a gargled little moan, and Quackity’s eyes fell shut as he repeated the movement again and again. He fucked deep into Quackity’s throat, groaning at the feeling of the walls flexing around sensitive skin. The music from the club seeped into the bathroom, and it felt absolutely filthy to be fucking in a strip club bathroom, even if Technoblade was the one who owned it. He jerked his hips forward a few more times, fucking Quackity’s throat in earnest, before his motions stuttered and he groaned loudly, forgetting to warn Quackity about what was going to happen.

Quackity took it in stride, though, swallowing down everything Technoblade had to give him as his boss hunched over a bit, petting through his hair over and over again in both a loving motion as well as a grounding on. Quackity slowly pulled back and licked his lips, looking up at Technoblade, who forced his eyes open. Quackity’s lips were spit stained and practically bruised from how hard Technoblade had been. His eyes had tears in them, and he sniffed with a little laugh, one filled with bliss. Techoblade studied him as he got up off the floor and noticed a wet stain on his tight underwear, a large amount right where his dick was. 

He had cummed in his underwear just from getting his throat fucked. The idea of that alone made Technoblade’s dick twitch with interest, and he sighed, going to redress himself and ignore it. This was a fucking mess. He listened to the music thrum for a bit, the bass coming in through the walls, and sighed as Quackity stared expectantly at him.

“What?” he asked, voice tired from that event. 

“Did I do a good job?” Quackity asked as he sniffed again, those blown pupils studying him. He had to be on something, he had to be. Technoblade felt a pang of guilt hit him at that-- he should’ve known.

“Yeah… yeah you did a great job,” he sighed as he went to tuck his hair behind his ear. He had fucked one of his dancers while the kid was fucking high. This was so messed up. “Go clean up and get back to work.” It was kind of harsh, but he wasn’t sure what to say. Quackity’s face looked hurt for a second, but he quickly hid it as Techoblade got his belt back on and went to step by him. He spoke up then. “What happened to your phone? You’ve been ignoring me.”

“Phone broke,” Technoblade said simply. “I have to get a new one.” It wasn’t a total lie, he had been phone shopping for a new burner.

“Do you need my number?” Quackity asked, hope in his voice. Technoblade studied him and tried to read his expression. He’d never been good at it, and he glanced down at his feet, then back up, and tried to think of something to say.

“You understand that I can’t just start dating you, right? You’re an employee.” His words were a monotone hit to the air, and Quackity looked crushed by them.

“I-I don’t want to date you, I just figured--” he began.

“What? That since you were working for me we’d become lovers? The world doesn’t work like that, Quackity. You’re in a job.” He had planned to kill this mutual crush of theirs himself, and he knew it was working based off of Quackity’s face. “I can’t do this-- know that I want to, I _want_ to. But I can’t. After seeing you with that guy--”

“Schlatt,” Quackity provided.

“Schlatt. Right.” Technoblade thought for a moment and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to see you with someone else, not to mention the power imbalance of a boss dating their employee who’s six years younger than him and is doing sex work. This is like a bad movie, Quackity, it’s not going to work out.”

Quackity swallowed, staring at him with wide eyes. “We could-- we could make it…” His voice got smaller. “We could make it work if we…” He trailed off, and Technoblade raised a brow.

“If we what, Quackity?”

Quackity was silent for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t know. I just thought I meant something to you-- there’s just these little things that you do with me that you don’t do with anyone else. That has to count for something, right?” He looked at Technoblade, eyes begging for the man to confess some awful love he had stored in him.

“Quackity…” Technoblade sighed and scrubbed at his stubbled chin, then turned to face the young man, dropping his arm. “I do a lot of work around town, not just this. So much goes into this. You could get hurt because of me, I’ll get hurt because of you, you could lose your job if something messes up and you decide you want to leave. You have to think about the consequences of the path you want to take rather than just taking it.”

Quackity stared at him, then blinked a few times, as if forcing back tears. Had he really made this kid fucking cry? God, he felt like a piece of shit. Technoblade sighed, and he stepped forward again, itching to wrap Quackity up in his arms and apologize. He didn’t, instead staring at the wall as he spoke. “I’ll see you, okay?”

“See you,” Quackity echoed in a small voice.

Technoblade headed out of the bathroom and left Quackity in there, feeling like a monster.

\---

The next came in after Technoblade had arrived home that night. He had left early, really just needing to get home and stew in his feelings. Why the fuck had he done that? Someone finally gave a shit about him and Technoblade had pushed them away. What was wrong with him? Technoblade could only mindlessly scroll on Reddit for so long before someone was bound to say something. That someone was Wilbur.

**What did you do to Quackity? He’s freaking the fuck out.**

Technoblade paused. **Freaking out how?**

**He’s high out of his fucking mind and he’s basically putting all his energy into work. He’s going to crash.**

Technoblade went to type, then sighed and stared up at the ceiling for a moment, trying to think of a defense. Finally, he sent a message. **I had to tell him it wouldn’t happen. That we would never be a thing.**

**He’s acting like you weren’t gentle about it.**

**I’m not a gentle person** , Technoblade replied honestly.

 **Sometimes you spare someone’s feelings when you say something, even if you don’t want to.** Wilbur sounded like a mother, and Technoblade hated the disappointment that weighed down on him.

**He was going to have to learn sometime. Better to put the fire out before it gets into the house.**

The three dots appeared for awhile, then a message popped up.

**He’s our best dancer and if he’s high all the time, he can’t dance. The best we could do is sell him out like we’ve been doing, but that’s horrible to do to someone who was obviously excited to be with you. You have to think of his feelings, Techno. Not everything is a situation you can run from, and not everything is a job where the path follows straight. Can you please just try and talk to him and reconcile? If not for him, then to just make sure we don’t lose our best dancer. I still have bills to pay.**

Technoblade stared at the message, then furrowed his brow.

**I should make up with him because you need money?**

**That’s a crude way of putting it** , Wilbur replied.

 **I’ll think about it** , was the final answer Technoblade gave. His phone popped up with a new message.

**You can’t run forever, someday it’ll all catch up to you.**

Technoblade chose to ignore that message, and went back to scrolling through Reddit. He couldn’t get the words out of his head, though.

_Someday it’ll all catch up to you._

He knew it would, he always had. He just didn’t know when.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> technoblade: i have fixed the situation.  
> wilbur: you fucked up a perfectly good stripper is what you did! look at him, he's got emotional instability!
> 
> anyways, thanks for reading. hope you enjoyed a blowjob scene.

**Author's Note:**

> so. this is my side account for smut and random shit that doesn't fit on my main. if you can tell what my main account is based off this fic's writing, you get a gold star.
> 
> please know that these are PERSONAS of the content creators. i'm not writing technoblade as a person eyefucking alex while he strips, it's all a fanfiction, it's all just characters. it ain't that deep, so don't try to make it that way. the fic was inspired by quackity's stupid smp character stripping, technoblade's character's affinity for murder, and wilbur's intro to the smp as making a drug van. i just make stories for fun, don't go sending this to the content creators and shouting about how someone wrote a terrible fanfic about them. i don't want them seeing this, but if they do, they do. 
> 
> anyways. enjoy the fic, and i'll update whenever i feel the mood to write quackity being a glutton for technoblade's attention, i guess.


End file.
